


After and Forever

by shadowen



Series: All Stories Have Monsters [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Autistic Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Demisexual Joe, Depression, Found Family, Getting Together, He's much better now, Internalized Homophobia, Joe and Nicky have a lot of stories, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nicky has a lot of issues OK, Nile wants to hear a story, POV Outsider, Past Child Abuse, Religious Guilt, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Story within a Story, Suicide Attempt, aro/ace Nile, frame story, spoiler: Nicky assaults Joe without meaning to, the most established relationship, virgin Joe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27896203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: It's definitely a love story, it's just not a pretty one.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: All Stories Have Monsters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087286
Comments: 52
Kudos: 352





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the tags for content warnings. This is a pretty rough story.  
> 12/8: Update to final chapter, with new scene!

Nile’s never had much interest in romance. She understands the appeal, in theory, but dating, sex, marriage, all of that... It just isn’t her thing.

In spite of this - or maybe because of it - she is absolutely _fascinated_ by Joe and Nicky.

She has so many questions, some of which she will never ask and some that will just have to wait until she’s old enough to have lost all possible sense of embarrassment. None of these ancient dorks ever seem to be self-conscious about anything, so she figures it’s only a matter of time before she, too, reaches the age of No More Fucks to Give.

In the meantime, she decides on one burning question that she thinks is fairly innocent.

“Yeah, but, like, _how_? How did you go from being on opposite sides of a religious war to...” She gestures vaguely between the two of them. “ _This_?”

Joe and Nicky share a glance that she can’t decipher, but that is literally just how they communicate, so she presses on.

“There’s got to be a story there, right?”

Joe shrugs. “Sort of, but it’s really not that interesting.”

“Lots of walking,” Nicky agrees. He makes a face and adds, “And sunburn.”

Nile has seen what the North African sun does to white people skin, and she feels a stab of sympathy, picturing poor Nicky with blotchy red blisters on his nose. 

“So what, you just stopped killing each other and rode off into the sunset?” She quickly corrects herself, “ _Walked_ off into the sunset?”

“More or less,” Joe says, giving Nicky a soppy grin. “I took one look at this magnificent vision and was immediately besotted.”

Nicky snorts and rolls his eyes. “That’s not at all true,” he tells Nile, and Joe scoffs loudly. Nicky continues, “He took pity on me. I was filthy and illiterate, filled with nothing but anger and hate.”

“Yes, but underneath the dirt and ignorance, he was very fetching,” Joe clarifies.

“I believe you,” Nile assures him. To Nicky, she says, “I mean, I know you were a terrible invader, and you’re definitely a badass, but it’s hard to picture you as anything but a precious cinnamon roll.”

“A cinnamon roll?” Nicky shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

This is one piece of slang Nile is happy to explain. “It’s like a person who’s all soft and sweet and totally never at fault for anything.”

As expected, Nicky is delighted by this new information and smiles at her brightly. “What a lovely thing to say! Thank you, Nile.”

From his seat across the room, Joe grumbles something that sounds like, “Never at fault, my ass.”

“What was that, my heart?”

“Nothing, _hayati_.”

They’re disgusting, and Nile _adores_ them. Sensing that Nicky is more willing to discuss this subject than Joe, she sits down facing him on the couch. “Alright, back up, so how did this precious cinnamon roll end up going on crusade?”

To her surprise, Nicky’s face darkens. She tends to think of him as a clear blue sky, gentle and serene until he rains holy lightning down on his enemies. Now, it’s like night has suddenly fallen on his eyes; no storm, no clouds, just... dark.

“Do not ask me that, _sorellina_ ,” he says gently. “My life began the day Jerusalem fell. Before that... It does not matter.” 

Of all the questions she’s had since she joined her new immortal family, this is the only time anyone has ever refused to answer. She’s gotten plenty _no one knows_ or _ask someone else_ , but never a flat refusal. The fact that it comes from Nicky, who always speaks frankly and kindly, is a bit of a shock.

Tentatively, she asks, “And after that?”

Nicky’s smile returns, though much less bright. “After that, I had Joe.”

“Nicky,” Joe says suddenly, a hint of warning in his voice. “Don’t.”

With an apologetic glance at Joe, Nicky tells Nile, “The truth is Joe doesn’t like me to tell this story.”

“ _Nicky_ ,” Joe says again. 

“Because it doesn’t make me look very good,” he finishes, as if Joe hadn’t spoken.

So much for Nile’s innocent question. “If you don’t want to talk about it...”

“No, it’s not that. It’s...” Nicky looks at Joe again, but Joe just gets up and walks out of the room. “If you wish to know, then I will tell you. Only, do not expect a tale of romance and adventure.”

Nile thinks hard for a second about why she’s asking, whether it’s idle curiosity or because she really wants to understand, and whether she even has a right to make Nicky dig up whatever bad memories he’s about to unload on her. Slowly, Nile nods. “I want to know.”

Nicky gives him a nod in return. “Then the beginning is, as I said, after Jerusalem fell.

***

All the other pilgrims were celebrating inside the ruined city.

Nicolò could have been with them. No one had asked or ordered him to join the patrols running off the last of the pagan soldiers lingering outside the walls. He could have been resting after years of ceaseless violence or bathing to rid himself of the dust and blood that covered him like armor. He could have been praying, eating, whoring, _anything_ , but God was not done with him, yet.

The demon who had been plaguing both his dreams and waking hours was still on the field of battle, waiting with burning eyes and wicked sword, calling, challenging.

The only rest that had come to Nicolò in weeks was the brief respite of death, those sublime moments in which peace was almost within his reach. He did not wake refreshed from such moments, but each time the reward was snatched away from him, his fervor to fulfill God’s purpose was renewed.

That purpose, he believed, was to slay the demon at last, or else be slain by it. He was grateful that the Almighty, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, had granted Nicolò this great test by which he might redeem his mortal soul, and he offered up his weariness in prayer.

He met the demon near a grove of trees, their trunks pitted and scorched from the long battle that had waged around them. The demon heaved a loud sigh at the sight of Nicolò, as if it had grown bored with this game, and fury burned hot in Nicolò’s chest. Their combat might be tiresome to this infernal beast, but Nicolò fought for his very salvation.

Swords locked, as they had done a dozen times, and Nicolò glared into the demon’s dark eyes. The demon stared back with cold determination.

Nicolò’s sword pierced the demon’s heart. The demon’s blade ran across Nicolò’s throat. They stumbled back, they fell to the ground, and they died.

 _This time_ , Nicolò prayed. _This time, Father, let me join you in paradise._

He gasped awake, his throat burning as the skin and sinew knit back together. His body ached, but he forced himself to rise.

Hardly more than an arm’s length away, the demon was also rising, a hand pressed to its chest where Nicolò had run it through.

Nicolò launched himself at the beast before it could fully stand. It blocked his wild swing and moved quickly out of reach. 

In all the times they had fought before, Nicolò was always faster, but exhaustion had taken its toll. Nicolò lunged after the demon, but again it parried and moved away, leading him in circles around the trees, keeping Nicolò from landing a blow but also refusing to strike one itself.

With a scream of frustration, Nicolò struck out once more, and the demon fell back in surprise, allowing Nicolò to drive his sword into its shoulder. The demon cried out, but the look it gave Nicolò was more annoyance than pain. Grasping the blade with its bare hand, the demon twisted and wrenched the hilt from Nicolò’s grip. 

Nicolò fell back onto the ground. The demon stalked toward him, now armed with both Nicolò’s sword and its own.

Desperately, Nicolò threw a handful of sand into the demon’s face. While the demon cursed and tried to clear its eyes, Nicolò leapt at the demon’s knees, sending them both sprawling in a tangle of limbs. 

The demon was strong and agile. Immediately, it threw both swords aside and rolled their bodies so that it straddled Nicolò’s chest, rough hands wrapped around Nicolò’s throat.

Nicolò thrashed, kicking and clawing, fighting with all his strength to break the demon’s grip. He scratched its face with his fingernails and pulled at its thick black beard. The demon turned its head to catch one of Nicolò’s fingers between its teeth and bit down hard enough to break the skin, spitting Nicolò’s own blood back into his face.

Darkness began to creep in at the edges of his vision, but still Nicolò fought. He longed for his eternal rest, but he would make this monster work to send him to it.

Slowly, gratefully, Nicolò sank down into yet another death.

Much too quickly, he woke with his head aching and his throat sore. 

He was lying flat on his back, staring up at a bank of soft white clouds that was visible through the trees. How many times must he perish at this demon’s hands before God would allow his suffering to end?

A voice spoke near at hand, and Nicolò turned his head to find the demon kneeling not far away, the two swords lying on the ground in front of it. 

Quickly, Nicolò scrambled to his feet, only to stumble against a tree, his legs weak and shaking.

The demon spoke again, using the Arab language, and Nicolò did not need to understand the words to know that it was mocking him.

Trembling with the effort, Nicolò pulled the knife from his boot and raised it in front of him, ready to fight.

The demon looked from the knife to Nicolò’s face with an amused expression. 

“Stand up!” Nicolò commanded. “Fight!”

Showing no sign that it intended to move, the demon watched him. Its half smile was still amused, but something in its eyes had softened. 

Nicolò knew this for the trick it was and rushed forward, his knife ready to drive into the demon as soon as it started to rise.

The demon did not so much as flinch.

It just knelt in the dirt, looking up at Nicolò with eyes that were somehow kind and patient. Nicolò had to stop so suddenly to keep from falling right over his enemy, that he knocked himself off balance and sat down hard on his backside.

To his eternal shame, the demon laughed.

Nicolò’s face burned. He could not stomach the thought of killing any creature that would not defend itself, no matter its provenance, but neither could he simply walk away from this battle. Surely, if he surrendered the fight, his soul would be forfeit. His only hope was that the demon might yet show mercy and kill him.

Frantic, he knelt in front of the demon and offered it the handle of his knife. The demon once again looked from the knife to Nicolò’s face, now puzzled.

Nicolò shuffled closer and grasped at the demon’s hand, wrapping its fingers around the hilt. It held the knife still in the air, clearly uncertain what to do, and Nicolò guided it until the tip of the blade hovered over his heart.

Understanding, dawned on the demon’s face, and it tried to recoil, drawing the knife away. Nicolò trapped its grip in both his hands and brought the blade back to his chest. 

“Please,” he begged, his voice rough and unfamiliar to his own ears. “Please, kill me. Let me go to my God.”

Even if the demon did not speak his language, it certainly understood, and it gaped in horror as it struggled harder to pull away from him.

Nicolò could not let it go. The end of his torment was too near.

With the last of his strength, he shoved himself forward, forcing the sharp blade into his own heart. 

***

“You _what_?”

Nicky gives Nile a sad smile, and she shakes her head.

“Sorry, sorry. I don’t wanna interrupt, but...” She takes a deep breath. “That’s... That’s a lot.”

“I know,” Nicky says gently, laying a hand on her knee. He’s dredging up what has to be some of his worst memories, and he thinks _Nile_ is the one who needs comfort. “What you must understand to make any of this make sense is that I spent my entire life believing my only path to salvation was to die a martyr’s death.”

Before she can think about it, Nile asks, “Why?”

“Because fuck the Roman Catholic Church, that’s why,” Joe answers bitterly. He’s come back into the room and is hovering in a corner, just out of Nicky’s line of sight. 

It’s a fair enough answer, Nile thinks. She can only imagine the kind of messages that would have been beaten into a queer Christian man in Medieval Europe, especially someone as devout as Nicky seems to have been.

Nicky sighs. Nile expects him to give some kind of nuanced, philosophical explanation, but he just says, “Because... yes, actually. Fuck the Roman Catholic Church, and fuck the centuries of scholars who twisted the Word of God to their own ends.”

Nile raises an eyebrow. She’s never heard Nicky swear, and it is, as she expected, _exactly_ like hearing it from a preacher. Suddenly, she wonders if Nicky even says _fuck_ when he and Joe are actually _fucking_ , and she immediately puts that thought right out of her head.

Because all their safehouses seem to have paper thin walls, she knows that at least one of them tends to get loud, but that’s already much more information than she ever needed about their sex life. 

“Shit, Nicky. I’m really sorry,” is all she can think to say, but he smiles at her with such genuine gratitude that it must be the right thing.

“The story does get worse, I’m afraid,” he warns her. “The rest can wait, if you like.”

Nile shakes her head, and Nicky’s hand tightens on her knee. He nods. Behind him, Joe ducks into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of wine.

***

Nicolò woke feeling... better, somehow. 

His body was enveloped in gentle warmth, the air cool and soothing against his skin. He smelled leather and sweet oil and a deep, masculine scent that immediately turned his thoughts to sin.

A soft voice spoke unfamiliar words, and the mouth of a waterskin touched his lips, which seemed to open of their own accord. He had not known how thirsty he was until the water began to stream into his throat, and he drank greedily. 

Suddenly, the waterskin was wrested from his hands, and the same soft voice was chiding him. Too fast, he thought. Of course. Drink too fast, and you’ll be sick. He had learned that lesson soon after his arrival in the Holy Land.

Nicolò opened his eyes slowly, groaning as the sunlight struck them. His mind was still struggling to catch up as he looked into the face of his benefactor, a face so beautiful and so kind, he thought perhaps his prayers had been answered and he was cradled in the arms of Christ Himself.

Then, wretched memory returned, and he recognized the face as that of his demon.

He struggled out of the demon’s grasp and fell to the ground. He made to stand, but dizziness struck him so firmly that he was lying back down before he knew what was happening.

The demon gave an exasperated sigh and said something Nicolò assumed was an unflattering remark. When the demon offered him a small pouch filled with dried fruit, Nicolò’s stomach rumbled. He had not eaten in... some days, and he knew this fruit to have a pleasant flavor. He had begun to reach for the pouch before he could catch himself.

Had he fallen so far that he would accept sustenance from a demon? And even if this man was indeed not an emissary of Hell, for Nicolò was beginning to have some doubts, then he was still an enemy and a pagan who would take any opportunity to undermine Nicolò’s faith.

He rolled his body so that he lay facing away from the other man - or the demon, whatever he was - and closed his eyes. If whatever master controlled his fate would not allow him to die, perhaps it would at least let him sleep for a while.

***

“He slept for two days,” Joe interjected. “I almost left him there.”

“It was a day and a half, and you should have,” Nicky shot back. To Nile, he said, “By all rights, he should have left me. This man showed me kindness when all I deserved was contempt, and that is the first of a thousand things for which he will always have my thanks.”

Another question pops into Nile’s head, and she looks at Joe. “Why didn’t you leave him?”

Joe looks at Nicky, and Nicky turns his head just enough that Nile knows he can see Joe from the corner of his eye. “Because I took pity on him,” Joe admits, and the corner of Nicky’s mouth curls in a way that is almost smug.

***

The man refused to return Nicolò’s sword.

In fact, he would not allow Nicolò to have anything that could potentially, even in the most extreme circumstances, be used to harm a living creature. At first, Nicolò thought the man was afraid Nicolò might return to the futile task of trying to kill him, but, after a few days of walking toward some unknown destination, Nicolò realized that the precautions, which also included making sure he ate and drank and kept his head protected from the sun, were to prevent Nicolò from harming himself.

During the day, they walked, Nicolò following listlessly behind his demon, his guardian, his condemnation. At midday, they paused to rest and eat. At dusk, they made camp. At night, they slept. In the morning, they rose and began again.

One morning, Nicolò found that he could no longer rise.

HIs body was unharmed; his limbs functioned and moved as they should, but he simply could not make himself get up. The very idea of facing yet another day was like a physical weight pressing him into the earth. 

With the end of the fighting, so too had his purpose ended. He had no home to return to and no hope of gaining Heaven. Even the choice to consign himself to Hell had been taken away. All that remained was to rise and walk and rest and rise again, and Nicolò simply could not do so any longer.

The man tried to rouse him, calling out in Arabic, then gently shaking Nicolò’s shoulder. When he saw that Nicolò was awake but still unmoving, the tone of his voice became concerned. Nicolò shook his head and curled into himself, wrapping one arm over his face. He was not ill, except in spirit, and could not spread his disease. 

Had he thought of it, he might have assumed the man would leave him, but he did not care enough to wonder. At some point, he went back to sleep and slept fitfully, falling back and forth between bitter dreams and the waking nightmare of his existence, until the day had passed completely.

When he woke, the night was filled with the stillness of small hours. The low fire cast a gentle glow on the sleeping face of his companion, who had laid himself down much closer to Nicolò than usual. Also close at hand was a waterskin and a piece of bread wrapped in wax cloth. 

Still lying down, Nicolò took a swallow of water and studied the other man’s face. He was handsome, truly handsome, with strong features and soft black curls. It was a face made for mirth and joy, Nicolò thought, laugh lines clear at the corners of his eyes, even in sleep. He knew that evil often appeared in beautiful forms to seduce the faithful, but he had never heard of demons pretending to be gentle or kind. 

Men, of course, used such strategies all the time, and Nicolò had been the victim of them more than once. Still, he did not think his companion was a deceitful man any more than he was a kind demon. Perhaps he was simply a kind man, a kind and handsome man who saw something in Nicolò that was yet worth preserving.

No. No, of course not. Such a thing would either be wonderful good fortune, which Nicolò did not have, or the generous grace of God, which Nicolò did not deserve. There must be another explanation.

Nicolò slept past noon of the next day and woke to the savory smell of meat cooking.

He blinked the sleep fog out of his eyes and saw the carcass of a small rabbit spitted over the fire.

***

“No, no. The rabbit was later,” Joe interrupts suddenly. “It was a rat. I remember, because it was all I could catch, and I was worried you might think I was trying to insult you.”

Nicky frowns. “Are you sure? I do not remember eating rat on that journey.”

The implication, there, is that he does remember other times they ate rats, and Nile really doesn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t think you realized what it was. You were... not well,” Jo says. He bites his lip, then adds, “It was three days, not two. You woke up a few times in between, but the third day was when we ate the rat.”

Nile wants to ask them to stop talking about eating rats, but Nicky’s brows are furrowed, his eyes staring at nothing, like he’s trying to remember something important. After a moment, he shakes his head and gives Nile an apologetic smile, “Things from that time can be hard to recall.”

Andy once told Nile that, between the two of them, Nicky and Joe have a nearly eidetic memory. Joe can remember images with a startling amount of detail, and Nicky can recite, word for word, things he read a century ago. The fact that he can barely remember whole days from what might be the most important part of his life says something about his state of mind.

“It was a long time ago,” Nile says, reassuring. “Hell, I barely remember breakfast.”

Nicky squeezes her hand gratefully.

***

Nicolò managed a few more days of walking before the weight overtook him again.

In the interim, after a great deal of shouting and pointing, he learned that his companion’s name was Yusuf and that they were travelling westward, presumably toward his home. Or to some court where Nicolò might stand trial for his crimes. Or to a more hospitable place for Yusuf to leave him and be rid of this burden. Reluctantly, he offered his own name, certain that it would soon be forgotten.

The next time, when Nicolò did not rise, Yusuf was less patient with him, trying anything to move him along, but no amount of shaking or shouting could force the fog from Nicolò’s mind or the heaviness from his limbs. If anything, he was more certain than ever that Yusuf ought to leave him behind. Surely Nicolò was too much trouble to care for, too useless to be worth this inconvenience.

The days blurred together in Nicolò’s mind. Some days, he rose and walked wearily behind Yusuf. Other days, he could barely lift his head to drink the water Yusuf insisted he take. He did not know how much time had passed or how far they had travelled when Yusuf led him to an inn in a quiet village. Gently, Yusuf sat him on the room’s single cot and spoke to him in a voice he might have used for a child.

His words were still foreign, but the meaning was clear enough: _Stay here. Rest._

With that, he left, and Nicolò laid down to sleep.

***

“If you want to tell her the whole truth, you have to tell the _whole_ truth,” Joe says.

NIcky shakes his head and doesn’t look at Joe. “The details don’t matter.”

Joe huffs, and turns to Nile, “There were times when I kicked him. There were times I slapped him and screamed at him and tried to drag him by the neck.”

Nile blinks at him, stunned. She can’t imagine Joe being cruel to anyone, and she’s never seen him treat Nicky with anything less that total adoration. They bicker like any couple, usually in a weird blend of languages she can’t follow, but she doesn’t think she’s even heard them snap at each other.

“You were afraid,” Nicky says softly.

“You were in _pain_ ,” Joe shoots back. “This isn’t about recriminations, my heart. The truth goes both ways.”

“Fair enough,” Nicky allows. To Nile, he says, “It is important for you to know that was the last time Joe ever raised a hand against me, for any reason.”

That much, Nile absolutely believes. She nods once and glances at Joe, but all of Joe’s attention in on Nicky.

***

Time became even less coherent in the inn. Without the daily journey, Nicolò only knew day from night, but not morning from dusk or midnight from the early evening. Yusuf came and went with what seemed to be a regular schedule, presumably finding work, but Nicolò could not keep track of the pattern. All Nicolò knew was that sometimes Yusuf woke him up to eat or drink, and when he woke in the night, Yusuf was asleep on a bedroll beside the cot. On the occasions that he found himself alone, Nicolò would immediately close his eyes and try to go back to sleep.

Whatever work Yusuf found was enough to pay for their lodging, to provide good food, and even to offer some luxuries to make the little room more comfortable and to ease their future travels. The one true indulgence, and ultimately the most important purchase made during the respite, was a small stringed instrument that Yusuf informed him was called an oud.

To Nicolò’s eyes, the thing seemed exorbitantly expensive, a beautiful item to be owned by the wealthy or by accomplished musicians who knew the secrets of its strings. He had never held an instrument. One of his fellow pilgrims from Genoa had brought along a cracked and battered lute and had filled the evenings with simple songs, until the day when both the lute and its owner were crushed by a frightened horse. Such a fine and fragile thing did not belong in the hands of warriors or disgraced sinners.

He shook his head vehemently when Yusuf tried to hand it to him, afraid it would shatter in his clumsy hands. What in their brief time together could have led Yusuf to think Nicolò would even know what to do with something like that?

Then, Yusuf began to play, and Nicolò understood the purpose of this indulgence.

The tunes he played were unfamiliar, but Nicolò was entranced by the strange melodies and by the rich tenor of Yusuf’s voice. He began to look forward to the evenings, when Yusuf would return and make music after supper. One day, Nicolò was asleep when Yusuf came in, but Yusuf gently coaxed him awake, beaming brightly. Once he had Nicolò’s attention, he sat on the floor with the lute, and started to play, but now the tune was one that Nicolò recognized.

It didn’t register at first, accustomed as he was to hearing it sung clumsily by many voices. Then Yusuf reached a particular phrase, and a great wash of memories flooded into Nicolò’s mind. Though he did not understand the Latin words, he had sung them hundreds of times as a child, happily joining the chorus as singing was the only thing he enjoyed that he was allowed to do. He remembered singing too loudly, so that the deacons gave him icy stares. He remembered the pitted wood of the pew under his hands. He remembered the smooth stone beneath his knees as he prayed. He remembered the boy who stood behind him and pulled his hair. He remembered that boy’s name had been Marco, and Nicolò had kissed him when they were both too young to understand what that meant. He remembered the feeling of his lip splitting on the sharp edge of his teeth when Marco punched him and the feeling of leather biting his skin when the priest beat him and the feeling of shivering when he was shut outside in the rain and told to pray that God would rid him of his sinful nature.

Nicolò did not know he was weeping until Yusuf suddenly stopped playing and rushed to sit on the cot beside him, speaking in a soothing tone. He laid a steadying hand in the center of Nicolò’s back, and the moment the warmth of that touch reached Nicolò’s skin, he let out a loud sob. 

Startled and ashamed, Nicolò covered his mouth with his hands and tried to choke back the sounds that were fighting to escape him, but Yusuf did not seem to care. He wrapped both his arms tight around Nicolò and held him close, a safe harbor in the storm of Nicolò’s misery. 

He pressed his lips gently against Nicolò’s hair and murmured softly, speaking Nicolò’s language for the first time, “I’m sorry, _hayati_. Forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

Nicolò wanted to say that Yusuf had done nothing wrong, that it was his own fault, that he was weak and broken and did not deserve tenderness, but he could not stop crying long enough to speak. He kept sobbing until his eyes were dry and his throat burned, until he was dizzy and hiccoughing, until Yusuf brought him water and gently made him drink. Then Yusuf arranged their bodies on the cot so that he could lean against the wall and cradle Nicolò against his chest. 

That was the first night in many years that Nicolò could remember sleeping peacefully.

***

Nile drags the heel of her hand across her damp eyes, sniffing. “ _Shit_.”

Joe is also tearing up, but she knows from experience that Joe will get emotional over anything. Nile is no longer allowed to show him internet videos without Nicky’s prior approval since she sent him an ASPCA commercial and he proceeded to cry sporadically for a week.

Nicky’s eyes are dry and clear, as if he shed all his tears several centuries ago, but just because he’s composed doesn’t mean he isn’t feeling it.

Hesitantly, she asks, “Is it okay if I hug you?”

The corners of Nicky’s mouth tighten, and for a second she thinks maybe he’s going to start crying, after all. When he answers, his voice is quiet, “I would like that very much, yes.”

***

The next day, instead of leaving Nicolò in bed, Yusuf motioned for him to get up and put on fresh clothes. After an exchange involving a lot of gestures and a handful of disconnected words, Nicolò understood that Yusuf wanted him to come outside.

Nicolò thought this was a terrible idea, but Yusuf was insistent, holding his hand and gently pulling him toward the door. Nicolò consented on the condition that the excursion would be brief, which he communicated by gesturing vaguely to mean _out_ , then a quick movement back to firmly pointing at the floor, meaning _here_. Yusuf nodded happily and continued ushering him out of the room.

The village was more crowded than Nicolò remembered, full of cheerful noise and bustle. He expected to feel overwhelmed, but the crowd reminded him of his home, of the busy port and noisy market, of the fresh air and heady smells he had always associated with freedom from the children’s home and the judging eyes of the priests. He walked arm-in-arm with Yusuf, as if they were dear friends, and Yusuf would occasionally point to an object or a place and say its name in Arabic, to which Nicolò would reply in Ligurian. While Nicolò could repeat the words easily enough, Yusuf seemed to drink in the new vocabulary like wine, prompting Nicolò to teach him phrases and trying to string together sentences of his own. 

By the time they circled back to the inn, Nicolò could recall the words for man, woman, child, bird, cloth, and an assortment of terms having to do with food and eating. Yusuf, on the other hand, had learned to politely introduce himself and inquire after his fellow conversant’s well-being, in addition to mastering a number of different ways he could instruct Nicolò to eat, sleep, and otherwise care for himself.

The phrases to ask forgiveness, it turned out, he had learned from simply listening to Nicolò.

From then on, communication became much easier, as they spoke to each other in a blend of Ligurian and Arabic that would have been completely unintelligible to anyone else. To Nicolò’s surprise, simply having someone to talk to immediately lifted his spirits, in part because he had completely underestimated just how much Yusuf tended to _talk_. They had spent so much time in silence, muttering to themselves or speaking only in single words, that he was caught completely off guard by the way that Yusuf could fill hours discussing any subject and by the way Yusuf himself could fill up a room with his personality and passionate nature.

Nicolò felt as if a curtain had been parted and the sun was shining on him for the first time in his life.

They continued their daily walks, arms looped together, calling out the names of things and repeating them until foreign speech became familiar. Yusuf still took work, so they could continue to lead what Nicolò thought was a very extravagant lifestyle, but Nicolò began to spend his time alone mending garments, preparing food, and teaching himself Arabic letters with the help of a slate Yusuf told him was usually given to children.

In truth, Nicolò often felt like a child, especially compared to Yusuf’s education and worldliness, but he no longer felt that he was damned simply for existing. For a while, that was enough to let him sleep through the night.

Eventually, they amassed enough common language between them to discuss more abstract concepts, such as the nature of their mutual gift and the dreams of the two women who also seemed to share it. Yusuf waved away Nicolò’s insistence that there must be some meaning in all of it, that God had granted them some mysterious purpose.

“We are alive, and we have each other,” Yusuf said simply. “I do not know what God intends for us to do with that, except to live.”

“A very pragmatic view, for a poet,” Nicolò teased, pleased that he could speak the jibe in Arabic.

Yusuf laughed and made a grand gesture with his open arms. “Is there not poetry in pragmatism? Is there not elegance in efficiency? I say that a good life, lived fully, is the most beautiful prayer one can offer to God, not complicated philosophies and vainglorious hymns.”

Nicolò thought that anything Yusuf said was beautiful, whether poetry or prayer or philosophy, and that the greatest gift God had bestowed on him was being allowed to sit here and listen to Yusuf’s words.

It was then that Nicolò began to fall in love with Yusuf and ruined everything.

***

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Joe says. “It didn’t ruin anything, and I was already completely in love with you, anyway.”

“But I didn’t know that, at the time,” Nicky points out. “And it did make things very difficult, for a while.”

“Only because y-” Joe cuts himself off, biting on his finger and slumping down in his chair. He’s clearly trying not to start an argument with Nicky, and, based on the severe eye contact going on between them, Nicky knows it.

“Out of curiosity,” Nile cuts in. “How long did you two spend pining hopelessly before you got your shit together?”

“Much too long,” Joe says and the exact moment Nicky answers, “Not that long.”

They shoot each other a look, and Nile can’t help but laugh. 

“It depends what you consider getting our shit together,” Joe explains, still looking at Nicky.

“And what you call _pining_ ,” Nicky adds, looking right back.

Nile raises an eyebrow. “I take it there’s a difference of opinion here?”

“On a few subjects, yes,” Nicky tells her.

Via a series of microexpressions that Nile will never live long enough to interpret, something is communicated between them, and Joe announces, “Actually, that’s probably a good stopping point, for now. It’s getting late, and I think we need to get our story straight.”

“Hey, now, you promised me the truth,” Nile reminds him.

Joe flashes her a grin, but his smile falters. Nicky answers for him, “There is more to the truth than simply facts.”

Nile figures she’ll find out what that means tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t believe you got them to tell you all that,” Andy says. “Well, I believe it, I’m just surprised it was that easy.”

She’s shovelling instant oatmeal into her mouth while Nile waits for her toaster waffles. Usually, Nicky gets up at the crack of dawn and cooks breakfast, but neither of them has seen Nicky or Joe yet this morning. According to Andy, there was a light on in their room when she got home at midnight, which typically means a late morning, since - and this is a direct quote from both Andy and Nicky - Joe needs his beauty sleep.

The ongoing saga of Nicky, Perpetual Morning Person, and Joe, Champion Nap-taker, provides some truly spectacular comedy, Nile has learned.

“Why? When did they tell you?” Nile asks. She wouldn’t exactly call yesterday’s _talk_ easy, but there hadn’t been that much resistance.

Andy shakes her head. “They didn’t. Quynh and I dreamed enough of it to know not to ask.”

That makes sense, Nile figures, but she also thinks Andy is fundamentally lacking in curiosity.

“After how Booker acted about it, I just didn’t think Joe would want to get into detail,” Andy goes on.

That makes Nile pause. “How did Booker act?”

Andy gives her a look. “Oh. They left out that part, huh?”

“Apparently.”

Andy chews thoughtfully for a second, then says, “Any other time, I’d tell you to ask them, but I don’t advise mentioning Booker to Joe, right now, so... Look, for the first while that the four of us were together, Booker and Nicky were really close. When Book had problems or questions or anything, Nicky was who he went to, and Nicky did everything he possibly could to make him feel like part of the family. Pretty sure Booker would have walked out on us at some point, if it hadn’t been for Nicky.”

“Okay...” Nile says slowly. “So what happened?”

“What happened is Booker eventually got around to asking the same question you did,” Andy replies. “And Nicky told him. After that... I don’t know, I guess he thought Nicky was the nice, grounded one with all the answers and optimism, and getting a look at all the ugliness and doubt that came before that just spoiled the illusion.”

Nile can understand that, she supposes. It’s hard to find out someone isn’t who you think they are, especially if that’s who you need them to be.

“It didn’t help that, not too long after, we had a mission go sideways,” Andy goes on. “Joe got himself in trouble, and Nicky got... ugly. I think all of it really rattled Booker.”

Violence is a basic part of the life they’ve chosen, for better or for worse, and Nile’s seen just how brutal Andy can be. She’s starting to think she’s barely seen a fraction of what Nicky is capable of.

Taking another bite of oatmeal, Andy adds, “There’s a portrait of Nicky that’s... relevant. Next time we're in the Sicily house, you should ask Joe to show it to you.”

“Ask Joe to show you what?” Nicky asks brightly as he comes into the kitchen and heads directly for the coffee. There’s an edge of weariness around his eyes, but he looks as steady and alert as he ever is.

Nile wonders if maybe they should change the subject, now that the subject is actually in the room, but Andy answers casually, “ A portrait of you.”

If Nicky is bothered by the fact that they were apparently talking about him, it doesn’t show. “Which one?”

“The one you don’t like.”

Nicky frowns at that, brows knit in thought. “The life-size one?”

“No, the other one.”

“Ah.” Nicky nods. “Yes, the...” He gestures generally to himself in a way that means absolutely nothing to Nile.

“That one,” Andy confirms.

“Wait, hold up.” Nile raises a hand. “Joe painted a life-size portrait of you?”

Nicky shrugs. “He had a phase. There’s one of Andy, too.”

Andy snorts. “Yeah, but mine’s not nude.”

Nile sputters. “Joe painted a life-size _nude_ portrait of you?” Before she’s even gotten to the end of the sentence, another thought occurs to her. “There’s a lot of nude portraits of you, aren’t there?”

“Not as many as you might think,” Nicky says, and Nile can’t tell if that means there’s only one or only one hundred.

“Not as many what?” This time, it’s Joe coming into the kitchen. His hair is damp from the shower, and he’s wearing the same sweatshirt Nicky had on yesterday.

“Nude portraits of Nicky,” Andy answers without hesitation.

“Ah. Not nearly enough,” Joe says. He wraps one arm around Nicky from behind and plants a kiss on his cheek at the same time that he swipes the cup of coffee from Nicky’s hand. “If it were up to me, you would never have to wear any clothes, at all.”

“Please, no. Everyone please wear clothes,” Nile begs. She can appreciate an attractive person, but she absolutely does not ever need to meet a penis in person.

“You’ve been outvoted, my love,” Nicky tells Joe, sympathetically, sitting at the table with Andy and Nile.

Joe, still drinking the coffee he stole from Nicky, sets a fresh cup on the table beside him. “That’s _one_ vote,” he points out. “Alright, everyone who thinks Nicky should generally wear clothes most of the time, raise your hand.”

Nile, Andy, and Nicky lift their hands at the same time, and Joe sighs.

“None of you are any fun.”

Nicky looks like he’s about to say something, but Andy cuts him off with a finger pointed at his face. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

Shrugging, Nicky shoots Nile a wink over the rim of his mug.

Nile thinks suddenly of her brother, teasing each other over breakfast and sharing a look when mom fussed at one of them. All at once, she’s swimming in feelings of warmth and loss and peace and homesickness, and she doesn’t know whether to smile or cry or just lay down on the kitchen floor.

Either something shows on her face, or Joe just has the best timing in the universe, because he immediately brings over her plate of toaster waffles and plants an affectionate kiss on the top of her head.

She misses her first family, but fuck if she doesn’t love this new one.

“Clothing is definitely one thing humanity has improved over the centuries,” Andy remarks. “Remember leather armor?”

“Remember _metal_ armor?” Nicky counters, wrinkling his nose.

“Thank god for kevlar,” Joe agrees.

For a few minutes, Nile is treated to a brief history of personal protective gear and all of its triumphs and failures over the last thousand years. At some point, Nicky gets up to put on a fresh pot of coffee, and Joe takes his place at the table. 

When Nicky starts to gather baking ingredients from around the kitchen, Joe says to Nile, “I think we still owe you part of a story.”

Immediately, he has her full attention. “Are you sure? I know this stuff is hard to talk about, and if you guys aren’t comfortable...”

Joe waves off her concern with a sad smile. “It’s not all pain and suffering. There’s good stuff in there, too.”

He looks over his shoulder at Nicky, who turns to meet him with a tender glance.

“But. I’m gonna take over the narration, if you don’t mind,” Joe continues. “And the very first thing you have to know is that, through all of this, I had absolutely no idea what was going on in Nicky’s head.”

***

Yusuf could clearly imagine his mother shaking her head at him, because of course her son would be the soft-hearted fool who went off to war and returned home having adopted a pitiful pet invader. If his mother still lived, he would have introduced her to Nicolò and dared her _not_ to care for him. Yusuf inherited his soft heart from her, after all, and she had never admonished him for bringing home wounded animals.

He did not want to compare Nicolò to an animal, but it was hard not to think of a kicked dog when Nicolò responded to every kindness with grateful uncertainty.

The first time Yusuf played music for him was a revelation. The ever-present storm clouds in his pale eyes parted, and Yusuf could fully see the deep and gentle soul that lived within him. Music was an easy thing to give, and if music could soothe even a fraction of Nicolò’s pain, then Yusuf would play forever.

Conversation seemed to have an even more pronounced curative effect, and Yusuf had to wonder how much of Nicolò’s malady was due simply to loneliness.

Some weeks passed before Yusuf was able to gather the courage and the words to ask, “The day I played the song for you and you wept... Will you tell me why?”

Nicolò looked away. “I am sorry. It was beautiful. I just... I was not expecting it.”

“It reminded you of home?” Yusuf guessed, and Nicolò nodded. “Was it a good memory?”

Slowly, with an uncertain glance at Yusuf, Nicolò shook his head. “It is a song from when I was a child. It was... It reminded me of my struggles with sin.”

It was on the tip of Yusuf’s tongue to laugh and ask what sort of sin could be such a struggle for a child, but he did not think Nicolò would appreciate being teased. Instead, he asked, “Should I avoid adding Christian songs to my repertoire, then?”

That earned him a thin smile from Nicolò. “Perhaps for now. I enjoy all of your songs, even though I do not understand them.”

“Would you like me to play for you, now?” Yusuf asked, and Nicolò’s smile brightened as he nodded. Grinning broadly in return, Yusuf snatched up the instrument and launched directly into a bawdy Epirean tavern song about a young man cursed with a massive cock.

They remained in the little village for most of a year, and that time wrought such dramatic changes in Nicolò, he seemed to be a different man. Though he spoke little and laughed less, Yusuf began to learn the language of his expressions and found he had a sharp mind and quick wit. 

Days still came when he could not rise from bed or seemed to be trapped in the mire of his own mind, but now Yusuf remained at his side, finding that companionship helped him recover more quickly and kept him from entering the senseless state that had plagued him before. When a month had passed without such an episode, Yusuf proposed that they might consider moving on.

Nicolò looked as though Yusuf had struck him, but he covered his shock quickly. “Of course. I’m sure you are anxious to be home. I’m sorry to have delayed you.”

There was so much to assess, from his reaction to his words, that Yusuf barely knew where to begin. To start with, Yusuf assured him, “It has been a pleasurable delay. I am glad to know you better.”

The tension in Nicolò’s jaw immediately lessened, and he nodded, “As am I. This has... You have been so kind to me, and I c-”

“Nonsense,” Yusuf cut him off before he could work himself into another fit of self-pity. “The Messiah teaches that we must care for those in need, even if they are strangers, does he not?”

Nicolò frowned in confusion. “How do you...?”

Merciful God, these people were taught nothing, but there was not nearly enough time to explain the overlaps between Christianity and Islam. “Nevermind. In any case, you who were my enemy are now my beloved friend, and that is truly a great blessing.”

The only answer Nicolò gave was to nod, as if he did not agree with Yusuf’s assessment but would accept it. Obviously, there was still something troubling him.

“As to my home, I am anxious to be in Tunis because that is where my money and resources are, as well as some relatives who may help us. I do not intend to stay.” Yusuf loved the city of his birth and missed it often, but it had not been truly home for many years. Perhaps, while they were there, he would tell Nicolò about his family and his childhood.

“Where will you go?” Nicolò asked quietly.

 _You_ , Yusuf noticed. Not _we_. Nicolò thought that Yusuf meant for them to part ways. To dispel that notion, Yusuf shrugged and said, “I thought we might travel. We make an unusual pair, even without the ability to heal, so it may not be advisable to spend too long in one place. Though, we could go to Genoa for a time, if you like.”

Nicolò shook his head quickly, but Yusuf could see the edges of a relieved smile. “No. No, I do not... I am content to go wherever you think is best. I have not travelled much.”

“Is there anywhere you would like to go?” Yusuf prompted. “I have not sailed the whole world, but I have been many places I would enjoy seeing again.”

To his surprise, the corner of Nicolò’s mouth turned up and he replied dryly, “Well, I always wanted to visit Jerusalem.”

Yusuf stared at him, then laughed. “And what did you think of it, when you arrived?”

In a perfectly flat voice, Nicolò answered, “The people were not very welcoming.”

Laughing, Yusuf shoved him, and his serious facade cracked into a wicked grin as he tipped over. When he sat back up, he overcorrected slightly, and his shoulder bumped companionably against Yusuf’s.

It was truly a great blessing, Yusuf thought, to be with this extraordinary man.

Their preparations to depart took some time, as Yusuf had entrenched himself in the community more deeply than he intended. There were endless farewells and apologies, and he was invited to share meals with no less than seven different families before he departed, three of whom insisted he should bring his invalid friend. When necessary, Yusuf had explained the situation by saying that his dear friend, Nico, was ill and often confined indoors, then that they would be departing now that beloved Nico was strong enough to travel.

Yusuf accepted two of the invitations, and told Nicolò repeatedly, “You do not have to come. I can say that you were struck with fatigue and need to save your strength for the journey.”

Nicolò took advantage of that excuse for one of the invitations, but managed to join Yusuf for the other, which pleased Yusuf deeply.

***

“It’s always like that,” Nicky interjects suddenly. “Whenever we stay anywhere for more than a month, he makes friends with everyone. Once, we spent three years in Amsterdam, and he was elected to the community council.”

Nile can just picture Joe accidentally becoming wildly popular, everywhere he goes. “Must be hard, being that charming,” she teases Joe.

He sticks out his tongue at her, then turns to point at Nicky. “I’ll admit, it’s usually me, but tell her about San Francisco.”

Andy snickers, and Nicky raises one eyebrow imperiously. “That was one day, and it was completely different.”

“You held court!”

“It was not at all the same thing, and you know it.”

“We were there for forty-eight hours, and half the Castro was in love with you!”

Nicky grumbles something in Italian and turns back to baking, shaking his head.

Another day, Nile is definitely going to ask about San Francisco, but right now there’s another story she really needs to hear the rest of.

“Anyway. Where was I?” Joe says. “Right. Leaving.”

***

Between the money they had saved and a generous collection of parting gifts, Yusuf and Nicolò left the village in a much more comfortable state than they had arrived. The purchase of two sturdy horses made the going much easier, and Nicolò was absolutely delighted by the good-natured beasts. 

“I never rode until I came to the Holy Land, but there was a stable nearby when I was young,” he explained. “I would go and visit the horses whenever I could. There was an old mare that everyone said was mean, but she would let me hide in her stall and brush her.”

He immediately claimed the patchy bay gelding for himself and named it Eligio, after the patron saint of horses. The two bonded so quickly, Yusuf would have thought Nicolò had spent his entire life on horseback. No surprise, though, as Yusuf knew horses to be better judges of character than most people. 

The first day of their new journey passed mostly in silence, but it was different than before. This time, they rode side by side, occasionally pointing to landmarks or animals that they passed, cheerfully greeting fellow travelers that they passed, and sitting comfortably with their own thoughts in each other’s company.

Yusuf found himself inspired by the changes in Nicolò - as well as by absolutely everything else about him - and began to compose a song. It would be just a tune, for now. He decided to compose the lyrics in Ligurian and did not yet have a strong enough grasp on the language, though he already knew it would describe a fearsome warrior with eyes like the sea and a heart that refused to be broken. He hummed phrases to himself throughout the day, repeating little series of notes until the parts of the melody ran perfectly through his mind, ready to be tested on strings and committed to writing.

When they had made camp for the evening and Yusuf pulled out the instrument, as had become his nightly custom, Nicolò asked, “What was that you were humming on the road? It was lovely.”

“Nothing much. Just a new tune I thought of.” Yusuf shrugged and set about tuning the strings, trying to hide his pleased smile.

“That you thought of? You mean you wrote it?” Nicolò sounded awed, as if he thought music was only composed by angels and not mortal men. “May I hear it?”

“It’s not nearly finished,” Yusuf warned him. “But I will play what I have, if you like.”

Nicolò nodded and smiled at him in a way that made Yusuf skin prickle happily.

So far, he had a brisk bit of melody for the chorus and a sweetly haunting tune for the verses, of which he was rather proud. He played three rounds of each, with some small variations, and ended with a repetition of the chorus in a much brighter tone. When the last note was echoing into the night, Nicolò applauded, beaming.

“Brava!” he said. “Yusuf, that was beautiful. You came up with all of that today?”

Yusuf could not help but preen a little under the praise. “The idea has been on my mind for a while. Today, it just began to come together.”

“What inspired you?” Nicolò asked, eager to know all about this unknown skill of Yusuf’s. “Will you compose words, or will it be only the music?”

Flushing suddenly, Yusuf said, “I have been thinking it will be a song about you, if that’s alright.”

Nicolò’s brow furrowed. “What about me?”

“Just... you.” Yusuf indicated his general presence. He really was striking, his pale eyes shining silver in the dim light and the fire casting sharp shadows on his cheekbones. “Your courage, your resilience, your skill in battle.” _Your lips, your hands, your laugh like gemstones pulled rough and rare from the earth itself._

The lines on Nicolò’s face deepened, cutting through the joy that had been there only moments before. All he said was, “I see.”

“You see what? What do you see?” Yusuf asked, puzzled. He thought for a moment, and when he realized what Nicolò must have assumed, he hit himself on the forehead. “No, no! Not about the... It’s not...” Frustrated, Yusuf set aside the oud and looked Nicolò intently in the eyes and tried to explain. “With a sword, you are like a dancer. You are like a wildfire, sweeping across the field of battle.”

“A battle I was on the wrong side of,” Nicolò pointed out darkly.

“Yes, you were,” Yusuf agreed. There was no point avoiding the truth. “Do you regret that?”

Nicolò looked stricken. “Of _course_ I regret it. I will never be rid of that stain.”

“That will be in the song, too,” Yusuf assured him gently. “The unstoppable warrior, whose blade could topple empires, laid down his sword in grief for the innocent lives he had taken. The gentle soul who would not let his heart be corrupted by violence.”

_The invader so remorseful that his enemy fell in love with him._

Yusuf would have been lying to say he had not reflected on the nature of what he felt toward Nicolò. A year before, he could not have imagined feeling anything but pity and sorrow for the beaten man who had stumbled after him away from Jerusalem. Now, that man was no more. Now, that pitiable creature had become Nicolò, stunning and unbreakable, and Yusuf could not imagine spending a single day without him.

“You think too well of me,” Nicolò said quietly.

“I think _everything_ of you,” Yusuf replied, before he could stop himself. “If you wish, I will say nothing of battle, and sing instead about the strength of your spirit and the impossible color of eyes. If that is still too much, then I will write it for myself, and only I will ever know what words there are to describe the sound of your voice.”

He took Nicolò’s hand in his. Now that the gate was open, there was no holding back, and Nicolò only stared at him in stunned silence. “Tell me what parts of you I am permitted to worship in verse, or else I will pen sagas devoted to the shape your foot leaves in the sand and invent new forms to express the emotion that your smile inspires in my heart. Only do not forbid me from committing anything to words, because that I cannot obey.”

***

“Damn, son,” Nile says, genuinely impressed.

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Andy groans.

Without turning around, Nicky mutters, “ _Ridicolo_.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a little extra?” Nile asks Joe.

Joe tilts his head. “Extra what?”

“Nevermind.”

Nile’s not even a little surprised that Joe’s side of the story is filled with speeches about how wonderful Nicky is, where Nicky’s had been generally just facts. 

_There is more to the truth than simply facts_ , Nicky had said yesterday. Nile wonders if there’s a reason Joe is telling this part.

“Unfortunately,” Joe continues. “My epic declaration of love was not met with the enthusiastic swooning I hoped for.”

***

Nicolò gaped open-mouthed at Yusuf for what seemed like eternity, then finally said, “What?”

Yusuf blinked, shaken out of his adoring reverie. “What?”

With a confused frown, Nicolò told him, “You can write whatever you want. I did not mean to offend you.”

“Offend me?” Yusuf repeated. “How have you offended me?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t mean to say you can’t write kind things about me, just that I don’t believe they’re true,” Nicolò said. He tried to draw his hand out of Yusuf’s hold, but Yusuf was not ready to let him go. “I’m sorry. Please. I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

“Upset?” Yusuf knew that just repeating Nicolò’s word back to him was not helpful, but he felt like he had missed an important step in the conversation and was trying to catch up. “I’m not upset, Nico, I’m in _love_.”

It was Nicolò’s turn to look like he had missed something. “What?”

“ _Amore. Hubun. Eros. Amor_...”

“I know what love is, _culo_ ,” Nicolò snapped. “Who are you in love with?”

Yusuf was absolutely certain he had heard the question wrong. “What?”

“You said you are in love.”

“Yes!”

“With who?”

“With _you_!”

Nicolò stared blankly. “ _What_?”

“ _Estaghfarallah_!” Yusuf threw up his hands in exasperation. This was not at all how he had intended this to go.

Before Yusuf could even think of how to get the conversation back to the original point, Nicolò just said, “No.”

Yusuf sighed. “No, what?”

“Just... no.” Nicolò shook his head firmly. “No.”

“My knowledge of your language now extends beyond the word _no_ , Nicolò. Please explain.”

Nicolò closed his eyes tightly and turned his face into his shoulder as if this was all more than he could bear. “No. Yusuf, _please_.”

Bewildered, Yusuf realized he was still holding onto Nicolò’s hand, and he released it. Nicolò folded his arms on his knees and buried his face against them. Quick, soft words came from his hidden mouth, too quiet and muffled to hear, but Yusuf knew that he was praying.

They did not speak again that night, and Nicolò was still praying when Yusuf fell asleep.

The next day, Nicolò did not say any words to Yusuf beyond what was necessary. He sat on his horse, listless and silent, and stared at nothing. In the evening, after supper, Yusuf played a sweet lullaby that he knew Nicolò liked, in the hope that it might ease this strange tension that had fallen between them. Nicolò did not respond and lay down to sleep without a word.

Yusuf could not stand another day of silence, and he spent the night planning what he would say to make Nicolò talk to him. 

“We do not need to speak of it,” he told Nicolò, once they were underway. “If that is what you wish, then I will respect it.”

Nicolò did not reply.

“Of course, I believe it would be better to talk plainly,” Yusuf went on. “I think we must understand each other, if we are to continue as companions.”

Niccolo said nothing.

“Which I very much wish to do,” Yusuf clarified. “Even if your regard for me is not the same, I am blessed and honored by your friendship.”

Nothing.

Yusuf sighed. “I do not think it is fair for you to simply tell me _no_ , and nothing more. I will accept it, but it is unkind of you to give no explanation at all.”

Silence.

“If _no_ is all you will say, then I must assume the reason is that you do not love me as I love you.” At this point, Yusuf was only talking to fill the quiet and to remind Nicolò that the matter would not disappear because he refused to address it.

“And since you have not told me otherwise, I think I will continue to compose my song. Perhaps I will add a verse about how the warrior’s heart belonged only to God and could not be swayed by temptation.” 

If the jab stung, Nicolò did not show it.

“I’m sorry. I should not have said that. You should know I admire your piety.”

Yusuf cast a glance at Nicolò, whose eyes remained on the road ahead.

“I have not told you so before, but it’s true. I have never been especially devout, but you...”

There were many ways in which Nicolò’s faith had done him more harm than good, Yusuf believed, but he was awed by Nicolò’s ability to _keep_ faith, even in the depths of despair.

“If I mock you, it is because I do not understand how a man can be raised with so much evil and yet hold so tightly to good.”

Yusuf shook his head, knowing he had spoken wrongly, again.

“I do not mean to say that the Christian faith is evil.The Messiah speaks only of fellowship and forgiveness. I have known many of your people who lived by those teachings, and not whatever it is that drove others to invade a peaceful land.”

Once, Nicolò had tried to explain to Yusuf the rationale given to the so-called Pilgrims for going to fight in the Holy Land, but he had faltered, hearing his words for the madness and flimsy excuses that they were.

“But it is clear to me that you have suffered, and that much of your suffering was inflicted by those who claimed to speak for God. It is clear that you believed them, and that you have since done the work for them and caused suffering to yourself.”

In the early days, when Nicolò had seemed intent on harming himself, Yusuf had not understood. He had supposed that their undying condition might be driving Nicolò mad or that Nicolò believed they were cursed and sought to cut out the evil by force. He still did not understand, but he knew that Nicolò believed that deliverance from sin lay only in pain and sacrifice. With the degree of spiritual torture and self-denail Nicolò indulged in, it served to reason that he saw himself as somehow more corrupt and more deserving of punishment. 

“It’s absurd, you know,” Yusuf said. “To think that you must suffer in order to be good. To be good, you must _do_ good. That is what your holy books say.

Nicolò did not have to speak for Yusuf to know he was thinking that he had done no good, only great evil.

“You have done terrible things, yes, but so have I. So has any man who has been to war, even if his cause was truly just. Should I suffer, as you do, for the lives I have ended? If the circumstances were reversed, if my people invaded your land, believing it was the will of God, if you and I met in battle at Rome, rather than Jerusalem, what then? Would I be unredeemable, in your eyes? Would you condemn me to the same torment you bring upon yourself?”

There was, of course, a chance that the answer was _yes_. In another world, in a different war, perhaps Nicolò would look on Yusuf as an unrepentant monster, but he did not think it was so. Nicolò believed - and had said many times - that God was merciful, above all things, and that anyone who was truly penitent would be forgiven their transgressions.

“No. You would not,” Yusuf answered his own question. “You would comfort me and forgive me. You would pray with me, though we do not share a faith, and you would do all that you could to put my soul at ease.”

Yusuf looked at Nicolò again and noticed a thin path of moisture had run over his cheek and down to his strong jaw, though whether it was tears or sweat, Yusuf could not say.

“Perhaps your heart truly does belong to God,” Yusuf wondered quietly. “I suppose there is no shame in second best if my rival is the Maker of Heaven.”

His throat had grown dry from dust and from talking, but he would shout himself hoarse if there remained any hope of breaking Nicolò’s silence.

“Nico, please,” he begged. “Speak to me. One word. Even another _no_ would be better than this.”

Nicolò said nothing, and Yusuf sighed.

***

“Just... _no_?” Nile stares at Nicky. “That’s all you said?”

“Five days,” Joe tells her. “He was silent for five days. I thought I’d broken him.”

At the counter, Nicky busies himself with baking, shoulders tense. He’s a pretty quiet guy, but a week without talking at all is extreme. 

“Meanwhile, I refused to shut up,” Joe goes on. “I tried. I thought maybe a little quiet time to think would be good. I thought maybe, if I could shut my mouth for a little while, he’d finally say something. I’d manage it for about ten minutes at a time.”

“Three minutes,” Nicky corrects him without turning. “I counted.”

Joe shoots Nicky a look over his shoulder, then looks back to Nile, shaking his head. “ _Anyway._..”

***

As they grew closer to Alexandria, they encountered more and more travelers on the road and would often combine camps for company and safety, as was customary. Though Nicolò was polite and would nod his thanks when offered food, it could hardly escape notice that he did not speak, especially since Yusuf spoke more than enough for both of them, and so Yusuf began inventing excuses. 

His friend did not speak the language, he said, but then the question became what language did he speak and how might they all communicate with each other. His friend was ill, he said, but then the question became what sort of illness could strike a person dumb. His friend was mute, he said, but then the question became how such a thing had occurred. His friend had taken a vow of silence, he said, but then the question became why.

Each time, as the questions piled up, Yusuf found himself spinning wild stories to support whatever lie he first told. His friend did not speak the language and was also horrendously shy of strangers. His friend had an illness which affected his brain in strange ways and made him unable to speak clearly, and indeed they were journeying to seek a healer that might help him. His friend was mute and had been made so by a sorcerer who desired him and cursed him when he refused to submit. His friend had taken a vow of silence to atone for the violence he had committed as a part of the invading Christian army.

Surely, Nicolò could only take so much of this. Surely, Nicolò would speak up to call him ridiculous or admonish him for lying. He was sure the last story would raise some kind of response, but Nicolò didn’t even look up.

With each passing day, Nicolò only became more withdrawn. His strange eyes, which Yusuf had come to adore, drifted ahead of him, seeing little and revealing less. Each day, he rose and continued to ride beside Yusuf, but he had returned to the state in which he first began their journey, as if the year between had meant nothing.

They would rest again, Yusuf decided. They would find another little room in a quiet village, and Nicolò could have all the time he needed to recover his health. Yusuf spoke all of this aloud, no longer feeling any need to keep his thoughts to himself, but Nicolò gave no sign that he had heard or cared.

The change, when it came, was abrupt and devastating, and it marked the one moment, in all their centuries together, that Yusuf was ever truly afraid of Nicolò.

***

Without so much as a sound, Nicky walks out of the room.

Andy and Joe share a quick look, and she squeezes his shoulder as she stands from the table to follow Nicky.

Joe sighs and rubs his eyes.

“Is he okay?” Nile asks.

“He will be,” Joe says, and she figures that’s the best answer he can give, right now.

“Are _you_ okay?”

Joe gives her a tired smile. “I will be, too.”

He doesn’t need to add _when Nicky is_.

He gets up and to pour himself another cup of coffee, then tops off Nile’s, giving them both a pause.

She waits for him to sit down again before she asks, “Can I... Just, when you say afraid...?”

“I mean genuinely, shit-my-pants scared. I thought...” He shakes his head and starts again, “When we were actually trying to kill each other, even when we thought we _could_ kill each other, I was never really afraid of him. He was terrifying the way a hurricane is terrifying. I was afraid of death, at first, but watching him fight... I was mostly just awed.”

Nile studies his face for a moment, then asks something she’s been thinking about since the start of the story, “You really did fall hard for him, like, right away, didn’t you?”

Joe looks almost sheepish. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

He chuckles at that and raises his coffee in salute.

Nile doesn’t know if he needs a minute or if he’s giving her one, but he takes his time before he goes on, “One moment, one _second_ , in nine hundred years, when I thought he might actually hurt me in a way that could do real damage, and it happened the last night we made camp on the way to Alexandria.”

***

As the traffic increased, so too did the risk of being robbed.

Most thieves would sneak up while a camp was sleeping and quietly make off with horses or packs. If someone was keeping watch, they might find themselves with a knife held to their throat by one bandit while the rest gathered the spoils. Sometimes, if the reward appeared high enough, but the travellers seemed likely to put up a fight, the thieves would simplify the matter and kill the travellers in their sleep.

Yusuf knew that he and Nicolò could make a tempting target for such villains, but he hoped that the threat of two strong and obviously armed men would deter any attempts to steal, at best, two good horses and some food.

He woke to the unfortunately familiar sensation of having his throat cut.

Blood pulsed through his fingers as he tried, on instinct, to stem the flow. Frantic, he tried to lift his head, searching for Nicolò.

There was just enough time, as his life drained out onto the ground, for him to see that Nicolò had been faster than his assailant and was already on his feet, ready to fight.

Yusuf felt death take him without fear.

He gasped awake. 

A grunt of pain drew his attention, and he sat up to see one of the would-be thieves fall to the ground near the fire, pieces of organ spilling from a rip in his belly. Other bodies lay scattered around, five that Yusuf could see, and it was clear, even in the dim light, that they had all died quickly but not cleanly.

Above the last of them, stood Nicolò, soaked in blood, his broad shoulders heaving. This was not the sweet and gentle Nicolò from their little room, but the invader at Jerusalem, trembling with the fury of battle.

Slowly, Yusuf rose and called out, “Nicolò?”

Nicolò’s gaze snapped to him, eyes hard, lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring as he breathed. He was terrible and magnificent, and Yusuf found that he loved this incarnation of his Nico as much as any other.

Still holding his dripping sword, Nicolò stalked toward Yusuf, stepping over corpses as if they were stones. Wildly, Yusuf wondered if he meant for the two of them to fight, if he needed the release of further combat to excise the troubles from his mind. When he came within arms’ reach, though, he tossed his sword to the ground and placed both his strong, bloodied hands on either side of Yusuf’s face, pulling him in for a hard kiss.

Yusuf’s heart stuttered in his chest. He thought he might faint.

Nicolò tasted like salt and copper, biting, unyielding. Despite being of similar height, he seemed to tower over Yusuf, crowding him, holding him in place with iron grip and stone will. If the force of a kiss could bring death, Yusuf would surrender to it gladly. In that moment, he would have surrendered anything to Nicolò.

When Nicolò broke the kiss, Yusuf thought to speak adoring words to him, to praise him and swear love all over again, but Nicolò hooked a foot behind Yusuf’s leg, making him stumble and fall backward to the ground.

“Nico-” was all Yusuf could say before Nicolò was on top of him, straddling his hips and pushing him down with another vicious kiss.

Yusuf’s senses were drowning. Nicolò’s teeth and lips and tongue and fingers and thighs. His scent of sweat and blood and dirt and death. The heat and weight of his body. The taste of his mouth.

***

“I really don’t need to hear this part,” Nile interrupts. “I’m glad y’all got around to it, but that’s just TMI.”

Joe shakes his head. “It’s... It’s not what you think. The first time we made love was gentle and slow and in a _bed_. This... was not that.”

“Oh. Okay. So...?”

***

Yusuf had never taken a lover. Not for lack of options or out of shame, but because he, as his father put it, expected love to be more than it was. He had fallen in and out of love so many times that his parents stopped asking if he would ever settle down and just sighed when he mentioned a new object of admiration. He wanted a kinship of heart, mind, and soul, someone who both challenged and inspired him, someone of great spiritual depth but also of good humor, someone who was his equal but also different from himself. All his potential paramours had met at least one of these requirements, but none achieved all. As a result, none of them, no matter their beauty or his affection for them, had ever sparked physical desire in Yusuf.

Nicolò was all he had ever longed for, and more.

He craved the touch of Nicolò’s body with a hunger he had never known. He was a starving man at the head of a feast. He had not truly known what it was to _want_ until Nicolò’s hands were on his skin.

Nicolò stopped kissing him to tear open his tunic and bite at the side of his neck, his shoulder, his clavicle, fingers digging hard into his ribs, tasting and marking every inch of him. Yusuf reached for the edge of Nicolò’s tunic, desperate for a taste of his own, but Nicolò batted his hands away and began to untie the laces of Yusuf’s trousers.

Too much sensation, too fast, too soon. He wanted to savor this, to savor Nicolò. He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. He swallowed and tried again, “Slow down, _hayati_. It... It’s too much.”

Nicolò did not seem to hear. With a growl, he pulled so hard that the leather string snapped, and he threw the broken end away in disgust.

“Nico, please, slow down,” Yusuf said again, rising up and reaching to touch Nicolò’s face, hoping that a gentler kiss would bring him back to the present.

Nicolò planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back down, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Nicolò’s other hand pulled at the waistband of his trousers, inching them down over his hips.

The rush of Yusuf’s desire began to give way to a different kind of tension. “Nicolò, stop. Please.”

The hand on his chest pressed harder as Nicolò pulled his trousers lower, the material scraping against his half-hard cock. 

“Stop!” Yusuf gripped Nicolò’s wrist and tried again to sit up. Frozen panic began to form like ice in his belly. 

His cock was free of his trousers, and Nicolò grabbed it roughly, teeth barred as he began to pull.

Yusuf’s skin crawled.

He gripped Nicolò’s wrist and twisted, not hard enough to snap but enough to hurt and get his attention. “ _Nicolò_!”

Nicolò stopped dead and stared at Yusuf, his luminous eyes blank as if he did not understand what he was seeing. All at once, he seemed to realize where he was and what he was doing, and he scrambled backward off of Yusuf with a look of horror.

Yusuf sat up, suddenly feeling cold and hollow, at once longing for Nicolò to touch him again and dreading the monstrous grip that had held him down. His ruined tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, and he pulled the tatters around him as the heat of desire was chased away by the night chill.

“Yusuf...” Nicolò murmured in a small, crumbling voice. “I... I didn’t... I’m sorry. I’m so... Holy God, have mercy on me. I thought it would be different. I thought... I thought love would make it different.”

Immediately, Yusuf wanted to rush to his side, to hold him and comfort him, but his own body was shaking with the aftershocks of terror and revulsion. With an effort, he made himself lift a hand and reach for Nicolò. Forgiveness was on his tongue, but his lips held it back. Yusuf knew that Nicolò never meant to hurt him, but he had... he had...

As Yusuf reached out, though, Nicolò drew back, shaking his head. “No. No, you... No.”

He stumbled to his feet, still shaking his head. “I can’t. I won’t... I can’t.”

Scrubbing roughly at his face, Nicolò walked slowly to where the horses were tethered. They had become agitated during the violence, but Eligio calmed when Nicolò laid a hand on his neck.

Of course, he could be gentle and tender with the horses, but when he touched Yusuf... It was an irrational thought, but Yusuf could not help the stab of hysterical anger that came with it. He was bitterly jealous of a horse. Even so, the unbearable sight of Nicolò in pain, tempered everything else.

As Nicolò secured the horse’s saddle, Yusuf rose shakily from the ground and took a step toward him, but Nicolò immediately held up a hand. 

“No! No... Yusuf, I...” His voice was heavy and rough, as though his throat was filled with shards of stone. “I have led you to sin in your heart. I will not lead you into damnation.”

He clearly meant it to be some kind of explanation, but Yusuf understood nothing. 

Without another word, without a sound other than Eligio’s curious nickering, Nicolò mounted the horse and cast one last mournful glance at Yusuf. 

He rode away into the night, and Yusuf did not even think to call after him or to follow.

***

Nile has nothing to say.

All she can do is stare at Joe, open-mouthed. There are tears on his face, but she knows there are tears on her face, too. The whole story is too much and none of it fits at all with everything she knows about Nicky.

Finally, she manages to force out a few syllables. “He w-... But... Why? Why would he do that? How?”

Joe raises a finger, asking her to wait a moment, and stands up from the table. Slowly, deliberately, he takes a clean glass from the cabinet, goes to the sink, fills the glass with water, and drinks. He’s composing himself. Or he’s pausing for dramatic effect. Maybe both.

When the glass is empty, he sets it down and rests his hands on the kitchen counter for a moment before he turns back to Nile. In a much steadier voice than she expects, he tells her, “ _Why_ , in this case, is a very big question, and the answer... The answer has a lot to do with the parts of his life he won’t talk about. It took both of us a very, _very_ long time to fully understand what happened that night, and I’m not sure I could explain it to you in a lifetime, even one of _our_ lifetimes.”

Nile sits back and crosses her arms over her chest. Her head is spinning with all of this, and she has to think for a minute. Joe lets her have that space, sitting back and looking out the window, lost in thoughts of his own.

The next thing Nile finds herself saying is, “So, is that it? That’s the story? Eventually you got your shit together and lived happily ever after?”

Joe actually laughs. “Oh, god, no. There’s... Shit, there’s so much more.” He sighs and glances out the window again. “But I do think that’s probably enough for now. Nicky will be pissed if I tell you the part about the monastery without him.”

“The what now?”

Joe just winks and heads out of the kitchen, leaving Nile with the dirty dishes and a thousand questions.


	3. Chapter 3

With a not-at-all subtle suggestion that they should - _wink wink_ \- get out of the house - _nudge nudge_ \- for at least a few hours, Andy drags Nile into town that afternoon for a grocery-run they don’t actually need. 

“It’s not like I haven’t heard them having sex,” Nile reminds her. Nile doesn’t think she’ll ever have the same lack of boundaries as people who lived before private bedrooms were even a thing, but she’s spent most of her adult life in barracks, so she understands intimacy in close-quarters. 

Andy snorts. “If you don’t want to hear them having sex, just put on headphones. You don’t have to leave the house.”

“So, why _are_ we leaving the house?”

“We’re leaving the house so Nicky can cry,” Andy replies simply. “And so we can get an obscene amount of everyone’s favorite junk foods.”

Suddenly, Nile understands completely. “Ah. Self-care time.”

Andy gives her a grin and a wink. “Now, you’re getting it.”

In that case, Nile decides, they’re going all-out on Operation: Family Pampering. She leaves the snacks to Andy, but she insists on a carefully curated selection of spa and beauty products that she guarantees will enhance everyone’s evening. She tries to add boxed wine and frozen pizza to the mix, since those are her personal go-to comfort foods, but Andy stops her with a horrified look. 

“We want Nicky to feel _better_.”

It’s a fair point, but Nile has to ask, “Will it make him feel better if he gets to mock me for being a tasteless American?”

Andy considers this, then shakes her head. “Let’s not risk it. Experiment for another time.”

Most of the food Andy grabs makes perfect sense, and Nile can almost guess which disgustingly processed thing is for who. When Andy grabs a pint of dairy-free organic coconut ice cream, though, Nile raises an eyebrow.

“Nicky’s lactose intolerant,” Andy explains. 

“Wait... That’s... Can we even _be_ lactose intolerant? Like, can we _have_ allergies?”

“Oh, definitely,” Andy says, tossing a half-gallon of rocky road into the cart. “Booker once died of bee stings.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.” Andy grimaces. “Anaphylaxis is a terrible way to go.”

They buy more food than four people should ever eat, immortal or not, and enough skin and hair products for a high school slumber party. All told, the trip takes about two hours, and as they start heading back toward the safe house, Nile hesitates.

“Should we maybe give them a little more time?”

Andy takes a deep breath. “Honestly? At this point, they probably need company and food more than anything.”

The car pulls up in front of the house, but before Nile can open the car door, Andy says suddenly, “The thing about trauma is that it doesn’t make sense.”

Nile stops. Both of Andy’s hands are still on the steering wheel, and she’s looking through the windshield at the house. Nile waits, knowing there’s going to be more.

When Andy goes on, she seems a little more certain of what she wants to say. “Bad shit happens. You know that. Sometimes it sticks with you, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the worst calamity will just roll right off you, but the stupidest little shit will wake you up screaming for years.”

She looks at Nile, then, and she’s somewhere between heartbroken and angry. “Joe told you what happened, right? The night Nicky left?”

Nile nods.

“See, that? That’s not the worst thing that’s happened to either of them, not by a long shot. And they’ll be the first to tell you it’s not even the worst thing either of them has done.” Andy takes one hand off the steering wheel and makes a fist, like she just wants something to punch. “But _that’s_ the thing that wakes Nicky up. That’s the thing he can never, ever, let go of. No matter how much time passes or how many times Joe forgives him, it’s just this wound that’ll never completely heal.”

She shakes her head and sighs. “It doesn’t make sense. Trauma doesn’t make people stronger. _Surviving_ makes people stronger, and it fucks them up in the process. Trauma doesn’t follow the rules. Not the rules of time or logic or anything else. If you’re looking for nice, neat stories that explain how any of us got to where we are... Don’t. If you want to understand a little better, ask questions, learn about, y’know, us... that’s fine. That’s good. Context is good. But don’t go looking for patterns or parallels or any kind of literary shit. Those are just shapes people lay on top of things to try and force it to fit any kind of... of anything. But it doesn’t. It’s just pain and survival and chaos.” 

Nile blinks at her. “That’s... bleak.”

“No, that’s... ugh. That’s not what I mean. What I mean is...” Andy drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Y’know what. Nevermind. Just don’t think too hard about any of it.”

She gets out of the car and starts to unload groceries from the backseat. Nile follows without a word.

They find Joe and Nicky on the couch, Joe resting against the arm of the couch with Nicky leaning back into his chest. Nicky’s eyes are closed, but his fingers are moving, tracing lines over the back of Joe’s arm where it rests on his stomach. Joe has a book in his hand and is reading aloud, his voice too quiet for Nile to recognize the language, but he stops when Any and Nile appear in the doorway.

“Did you buy the entire store?” he asks.

“We come bearing comfort food,” Andy announces and deposits all of her shopping bags on the coffee table. “And Nile got some fancy lotion or something.”

“It’s shea butter, and it’s for my hair,” Nile informs her. “Just because you’ve neglected your hair for a few hundred years doesn’t mean I have to.”

Andy throws the crumpled receipt at Nile’s head, and Nile catches it and throws it right back. 

As Nile starts to unpack the food and supplies onto the coffee table, Nicky asks, “Would you like help with your hair?”

He’s still reclining in Joe’s arms, but his eyes are half open. He doesn’t look content, exactly, but he looks... soothed.

It’s on the tip of Nile’s tongue to say, _No offense, but..._ when she glances at Joe and realizes that Nicky might actually have some idea what to do with African hair. “Seriously? That would be amazing,” she says sincerely, and he smiles.

After everyone has inhaled some sugar and carbs, Nile settles on the floor while Nicky sits behind her on the couch and begins the long, tedious process of unbraiding her hair. Joe joins Nile on the floor, and they start taking turns painting each other’s nails. She got in the habit of buying Halal-friendly nailpolish a long time ago, and she’s glad she stuck with it. Andy, meanwhile, has discovered the joy of the microwaveable neck wrap and is lounging eating ice cream from the carton, with her feet soaking in warm water.

“Do we have any photos from when your hair was in braids?” Nicky asks.

Joe shakes his head. “It didn’t last long. Andy kept making fun of me.”

“It was not a flattering look,” Andy reminds him. “Your head i-”

“Is a weird shape. Yes, I remember,” he says rolling his eyes.

“I liked it,” Nicky says mildly.

“You always like my hair.”

“I didn’t like it when you shaved it.”

At this point, Nile has to jump in. “You shaved your head?”

“Terrible mistake,” Joe tells her. “Never again.”

“I liked it shaved,” Andy remarks.

Nile can’t see the look Nicky gives Andy, but his voice is too polite to be friendly. “I don’t think you get to have an opinion, anymore, Andromache.”

Andy just grins at him and shoves a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. 

“Beloved, considering the hair choices you’ve made, I’m not sure you should have an opinion either,” Joe says. “And your head was also shaved, at one point.”

“That was... deeply unflattering,” Nicky agrees. “But it wasn’t exactly my choice.”

Joe gives him a look. “You chose to live at the monastery and let those self-righteous sacks take away your beautiful hair.”

“My hair was in knots beyond saving,” Nicky reminds him. “Besides, it was traditional for their order, and I was their guest.”

Nile remembers Joe’s comment from earlier and asks, “The monastery is part of the story, right? You said something about that.”

Joe’s smile softens, and he looks up at Nicky. “Yeah, that’s part of the story.”

There is a pause, then Nicky takes a deep breath and says, “After I left Joe, I was... lost. My own heart was a stranger to me, and I was beginning to see that it always had been. I needed to find myself in God, so I went to a monastery in Cyprus to spend time in prayer and study.”

“It took me months to track him down,” Joe adds. “When I finally did, the damn monks wouldn’t let me through the gate.”

“You were trying to barge in to harass their guest,” Nicky points out.

Joe scoffs. “I wouldn’t have had to barge in if th-”

“He shoved his way into the courtyard,” Nicky tells Nile, cutting Joe off. “He just started roaming around, shouting like a mad man.”

In what is clearly an imitation of Joe, Nicky starts calling out in really old Italian. The only thing Nile catches is various repetitions of “ _Nicolò! Amore mio!_ ”, but she gets the picture.

“It was very romantic,” Joe tells her with a wink.

“It was absurd!” Nicky insists. “Here was this strange man, filthy from travelling, with a sword on his back, yelling nonsense. Most of the monks didn’t understand the language, so they just thought he was raving.”

“They shouldn’t have tried to keep me out,” Joe says, indignant. “They’re lucky all I did was shout. Other men have tried to keep me from you and suffered much worse consequences.”

Nicky responds with a sigh that somehow expresses the full weight of 900 years spent putting up with Joe’s shit.

“So how long did you let him yell his stupid head off?” Nile asks, and Joe gives her a betrayed look.

“Not long. He was frightening the monks.”

From her chair, Andy snorts and just says, “New Orleans, sixty-eight.”

Nicky laughs loudly, and Joe groans, “Another thousand years, and I will never live that down.”

“And I will _definitely_ be asking about that story,” Nile says. “Right now I want to hear the rest of this one.”

She can almost hear Nicky’s smile as he takes a breath to begin.

***

The sight of Yusuf standing in the courtyard struck Nicolo with a joyful longing he did not expect.

A moment later, when Yusuf resumed shouting loud enough to wake the dead, that longing was replaced with abject embarrassment, and Nicolo rushed forward quickly to grab Yusuf by the arm and haul him back toward the gate.

Once they were outside the walls and out of sight of the scandalized monks, he released Yusuf’s arm and demanded, “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“Looking for you!” Yusuf exclaimed, as if there were nothing else on Earth for him to do.

“Well done, then. You found me.”

Nicolo held out his arms in presentation, and Yusuf just stared at him, evidently at a loss. When Nicolo considered what he must look like, his hair and beard shorn away, wearing the ill-fitting robes of a holy man, it was no wonder Yusuf was startled. This was a far cry from the monster who had ravaged him and left him on the road to Alexandria.

With a sigh and a sudden weight in his stomach, Nicolo dropped his arms and told Yusuf, “If you’ve come to demand justice for what I did, you may have it. I will submit to whatever punishment you choose.”

It was a cowardly thing to do. He knew that he deserved much worse than any penance Yusuf would set for him, but leaving Yusuf once had already been the greatest punishment he could inflict on himself.

Yusuf blinked at him. “I don’t want justice, Nicolo. I just want to know _why_.”

“Because I am an animal,” Nicolo confessed, sinking to his knees. He had spent every night since they parted thinking of how he might beg Yusuf’s forgiveness, but all the words felt like sand pouring from his mouth. “I thought it would be different if we loved each other, but I was wrong. I could not control myself, and I hurt you. I didn’t... I would rather cut off my hands and b-”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Yusuf sat on the ground in front of him, holding up a hand. “I have... many questions. First, for my own understanding, did you... Are you saying that you love me?”

In truth, Nicolo thought that was the most obvious and irrelevant part of all this, but he answered honestly, “Beyond measure and reason.”

Yusuf drew in a sharp breath. He stared at Nicolo with eyes that shone like heaven and seemed for a moment as if he might weep. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Yes. Wonderful. Good. That is... We shall start there. Yes.”

This was the first instance in their time together that Nicolo had seen Yusuf fumbling for words, and it was strangely satisfying.

“You said you thought it would be different,” Yusuf went on. “What do you mean? Different from what?”

Under the full weight of Yusuf’s attention, Nicolo felt like his heart was cut open and laid bare, like he had no choice but to reveal the parts of himself that had never before seen the light of day. “From when I have laid with other men,” he admitted. When Yusuf showed no shock at hearing this, he continued, “There was no thought. Only touching in whatever way brought the quickest release. It is sometimes this way in battle, also. My body acts, and my mind is... elsewhere.”

There were other times, too, moments of pain or even simply of tedium, often while praying the rosary, when Nicolo’s thoughts would not stay where they were meant to be. This had led him into many scoldings and a few injuries, but he had never unwittingly harmed anyone.

He bowed his head as he went on, unable to look into Yusuf’s gentle eyes. “I do not know if it was lust for pleasure or for blood that addled me. I knew nothing of what I was doing, until... until you spoke my name with fear.”

Silence settled, and it felt to Nicolo like a funeral pall. At any moment, he thought, Yusuf would stand and walk away from him, as he should have done long ago. When it was too much to bear, Nicolo tried to say, “I know I do not deserve your mercy or y-”

“I forgive you.”

Nicolo looked up at Yusuf in disbelief. “What?”

“I forgive you,” Yusuf said again, and he shrugged as if it was nothing. “You were not yourself, and you meant no harm. It was... unsettling, yes. It may be some time before I’m prepared for another attempt at love-making, but I do not hold you to blame.”

All Nicolo could do was gape at him. Any kind of absolution had been too much to hope for, but this... “Another attempt?” Nicolo repeated.

“Of course. Perhaps not soon, but time is something we have in abundance.” Yusuf tilted his head, frowning. “Unless that is not what you want?”

Nicolo opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. Every part of his entire being ached for the touch of Yusuf’s skin, for the feel of soft curls between his fingers, for the smell of sweet oil and leather and _Yusuf_. In equal measure, everything he had ever learned told him that such desire was wicked and corrupt, that to indulge in it would condemn them both to damnation, that Nicolo himself was all the more sinful for having inspired Yusuf’s lust in the first place.

“I do not know,” he admitted. He had come to the monastery in search of clarity and still held hope that he might find it. “I am not yet certain what I truly want.”

Yusuf nodded thoughtfully. “I cannot blame you for that, either,” he said. “Is it a comfort or a burden for you to know that I _am_ certain? Because I am as certain of my love for you as the shore is certain of the sea. I will do whatever you ask of me, but know that what I want is to be beside you every moment until all the earth is ash.”

The only thing Nicolo could think of to say was, “Just... give me time.”

“As much as you need,” Yusuf agreed. Leaning forward, he took Nicolo’s hand and placed gentle kisses on each of his fingertips. “One year from this day, I will return, and we will speak again. If that is not enough time, then I will return the year after, and the year after that, and for a hundred years until your answer is ready.”

***

Nile raises an eyebrow, but Joe is just smiling and painting painting her nails. “You’re kidding.”

Joe shakes his head, but it’s Nicky who answers, “Three times, he came to the gate. The third time, I left with him.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Nile can’t turn around to look at Nicky, but she gives him side-eye, anyway. “You spent three years in a monastery, convincing yourself it was okay to hook up with this flawless snack who adores you?”

Joe laughs, and Nicky says mildly, “I also learned to read Greek and Aramaic and studied the original text of the Gospels, but yes, three and a half years, more or less.”

“His Greek was better than mine, by the time he left,” Joe says. He finishes painting Nile’s nails and offers his right hand for a second coat.

“Damn.” One day, Nile thinks, she’ll take a break from all the Do-Gooding and spend some time studying art and history. “So, then what? You kissed dramatically and went off to shack up together?”

Nicky hums thoughtfully. “Yes and no. We went to Tunis for a little while, then to al-Jaza’ir. We decided to stay in Sicilia for longer and that w-”

“But you really don’t need to hear that part,” Joe tells Nile with a wink. 

Nile rolls her eyes. “Okay, maybe I need to hear _some_ of that part. Like why it took you so fucking long.”

“That is actually a good damn question,” Andy chimes in. “I remember dreaming that time. Woke up every morning just horny and frustrated.”

Joe looks up at Nicky, and Nile can practically feel whatever passes between them move through the air above her head. Nicky says, “I still had things to work through.”

Smiling gently, Joe adds, “We both did.” 

In a warm voice, Nicky goes on, “One day, I just looked at him, and I was ready.”

“Just a normal day,” Joe says.

“It was raining,” Nicky says.

***

The cottage in Sicily was a single airy room, with a place for cooking and eating on one side and the largest, softest bed Nicolò had ever seen on the other. Big windows let in light from every side and filled the space with the sound of sea birds and the smell of salt air.

Instinctively, Nicolò felt that so welcoming and private a place must be an extravagant luxury. Good fortune in finding work and Yusuf’s canny business sense had served to give them greater wealth than Nicolò would have dreamed possible, but he had spent so long with so little that even this small bit of property seemed like far too much. Yusuf assured him repeatedly that they could easily afford it and could stay as long as it was safe.

After a month or so, Nicolò began to worry less and to allow himself to relax into the life they were slowly building together.

Since leaving the monastery, Yusuf had been infinitely patient and attentive, allowing Nicolò to close the distance between them at his own pace. They had settled into their previous patterns much more easily than either of them expected, sharing all things and taking as much pleasure in silence as in conversation. Beyond that, they began more and more to coexist in the same physical space, orbiting each other like binary stars. 

When they walked, they did so arm-in-arm. When they rested, they did so shoulder-to-shoulder. When they fought, as circumstances required, they did so in unison, and Nicolò knew where Yusuf’s sword would be as surely as if he had swung it himself. After they arrived in Sicily, they began to sleep side-by-side, tangled up so tightly that no outside force could part them.

On one particular morning, after they had slumbered in this way, Nicolò woke slowly. Normally, he would be up with the sun and going about the daily chores well before Yusuf showed any sign of stirring, but today he felt no urgency, no immediate need to leave the warm comfort of the bed. He could smell fresh bread and _qahwah_ and the bright, ethereal scent of impending rain. 

_Rain_. Nicolò groaned. He would need to cover the windows, bring in extra wood for cooking, and pick whatever was ripe from the garden. They were nearly out of wine, also, so he would have to send Yusuf to the market. No, _Nicolò_ would have to go to the market, since Yusuf had argued with the wine seller and refused to deal with “that tasteless charlatan” ever again. He should also make sure the horses had enough feed and water.

“What’s the matter?”

Nicolò opened his eyes and saw Yusuf coming toward him with a plate of food and a steaming cup, smiling warmly.

He also saw that the windows were already covered, casting the cottage in dim, grey light that made Yusuf’s eyes appear black and shining. On the table behind him was a small pile of fresh vegetables and fruit, as well as two full bottles of deep red wine. Enough wood for several days was stacked neatly in a corner.

Nicolò sat up in bed and gave Yusuf a grateful smile of his own. “In fact, nothing is the matter. You have taken care of everything. Did you f-?”

“I checked on the horses first thing, though Eligio was very disappointed not to see you.” Beaming, Yusuf sat on the bed beside him, handing him the food and drink. “You seemed to sleep poorly. I thought you might need to lie in, for a while.”

In truth, Nicolò’s sleep had been disrupted by dreams of his youth, distorted into the fantastic visions of nightmare. Had he woken at his usual hour and gone about the day, he suspected he would have been in a dismal mood. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, grasping Yusuf’s hand. “Truly. Thank you.”

Yusuf waved as if it was nothing, but his smile widened. “You do nearly everything for me. I can be slightly less of a lazy ass, every so often.”

Without thinking, Nicolò brought Yusuf’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the silver rings on his strong fingers. Yusuf drew in a sharp breath, and then seemed to stop breathing altogether. Nicolò looked up to meet his eyes and found them wide, hopeful, lit with a fire Nicolò only recognized because the same flame had sparked inside himself.

With slow, deliberate movements, Nicolò let go of Yusuf’s hand and set the plate and cup, both still full, carefully on the floor. Then, with his palms flat on the bed, he leaned forward, making certain that Yusuf could see what he intended, and brought their lips together in a soft, chaste kiss.

It was the first time their mouths had met since that terrible night near Alexandria, and the moment could not have been more different. Nicolò’s mind was clear. He knew what he desired and why and that to be one with Yusuf was his salvation, not his undoing.

When Nicolò drew back, Yusuf’s eyes remained closed, his lips parted. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at Nicolò with such unabashed and absolute adoration, that Nicolò’s heart seemed to take several beats backward. It was too much, too overwhelming, but he held Yusuf’s gaze.

Softly, delicately, as if the smallest sound might shatter this fragile moment, Yusuf asked, “Are you certain?”

Nicolò was as certain of his heart as the shore was certain of the sea. He was as certain of Yusuf as he was that day would always follow night, that winter would give way to spring, that the sun remained in the sky, despite the clouds and the rain.

Mouth suddenly dry, he nodded and asked Yusuf, “Are you?”

Yusuf’s answer was to kiss him again, deep and slow, fingers sliding around the back of Nicolò’s neck and into his hair.

They fell back into the bed and did not leave it again until long after the storm had passed.

***

“Told you it wasn’t a very interesting story,” Joe concludes, his eyes going back to Nile.

Nile blinks at him. “Yeah. Uh huh. Dull as dirt.”

“You made them skip the good part,” Andy complains. “You want some real poetry, get Joe to tell you about Nicky’s blow jobs.”

If these were normal people, there would have been blushing and laughing, and someone probably would have thrown something at Andy. Not a one of them is anywhere near normal, though, so Joe just sighs blissfully and says something in French that Nile can tell is absolutely filthy. 

He looks up at Nicky with absolute adoration and adds, unfortunately, in English, “The worst of men would cease their warring and make only love if they knew the perfection of my beloved’s mouth.”

“Okay,” Nile interrupts loudly. “I think that is _enough_ story time. Who wants to watch a movie?”

As predicted, this prompts a heated argument about what to watch, since none of them ever agree. Andy loves slapstick comedies, which Joe thinks are irritating. Joe loves romantic comedies, which Nile and Nicky both think are absurd. Nicky has a weird and completely unexpected passion for gross horror movies, which literally no one can stand. Nile loves historical dramas, but watching period pieces with people who actually lived through those periods is a nightmare. They can generally all agree on science fiction, but Nicky won’t pay attention to anything in English.

Eventually, Andy throws her hands up in frustration and goes to the kitchen to make popcorn. Joe and Nicky are bickering about whether some Russian movie actually counts as horror. Nile just sits back and sighs.

She loves her stuipd family.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to LAFseanchai for the beta!  
> Sequel is currently in progress. :)


End file.
